


Hot, Sticky, Sweet

by amandroid



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: AU, F/M, Pole Dancing, Porn with not a lot of plot, Sauced up flirting, implied bisexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25980832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandroid/pseuds/amandroid
Summary: You and your friends go to a strip club and one amateur pole-dancer catches your eye...
Relationships: Dan Avidan/Reader insert
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Hot, Sticky, Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as a self-ship story I posted to my Tumblr I kind of doubt a lot of people read. Last night I was in a really shit-terrible mood and my mind ended up drifting to this story so I decided to post it here and change it to a Reader insert story because it wouldn't involve that much effort to rework and edit. I have a draft for a second part where stuff happens (sex stuff :0) but I wasn't motivated very much to finish it before so who knows? If enough folx dig this part, I'll get that second part done as well now that I have an idea of where to take it

It’s a Friday night and you’re out with your friends, everybody at different levels of drunkenness and/or rowdiness. They had dragged you not-too reluctantly along to a strip club because they have a monthly coed amateur pole-dance night. None of them are performing but it’d be fun and why not? 

You’re at a table that’s a reasonable distance away from the lighted stage, having just watched one of the amateur dancers finish her routine, adjust her sparkly thong and then saunter off the stage, disappearing behind the curtain with a swish of long streaky blonde hair.

You have your glass of rum of coke poised up to your lips when the MC tells everybody to give it up for the dancer whose name you didn't catch and a lot of other things that get drowned out by the ambient noise as the DJ crossfades the song that previous amateur dancer was working the pole to.

The sounds start to die down as the MC announces the next dancer. "Give it up for...Danny!"

Already you can feel your interest is piqued. For an amateur pole-dancing night that’s supposed all-inclusive, the lineup so far hasn't had very much guys. You understand why and try to be game for the rest of the amateur dancers but a lot of them have not been the type you’d be into, even as tipsy bi-curious eye candy.

Still, you have no reason to think anything of it until the curtain parts abruptly to the sound of a staccato drum beat and the guy addresses as Danny strides out. Immediately your eyes widen and you squeeze your lips tight to keep the ice cubes in the glass from sliding right into your surprised gaping mouth. Even still, a trickle of watery rum makes into your mouth, almost making you choke and you hastily set your glass down, wiping off your mouth with the side of your hand. 

Your eyes are unable to focus any part of him individually as he struts towards the pole, curling his fingers around it and then swinging his head around, whipping his mane of long curly brown hair in an arc, his face immediately breaking out in an infectious, toothy smile. The smile isn’t directed at anybody in particular but shows a private glimpse into a moment of giddy freedom that you find oddly endearing as he swings himself around the pole. As the muscles in his lean arms flex to build momentum, your eyes rake over his body as he swings into view. What initially inflamed your senses is just the fact there is so much bare skin on display, his body long and lithe and standing at least six feet tall with wild dark brown tangles of hair spilling down to his shoulders, his slight body tapering down to a tiny American flag-print Speedo that is doing it’s best to cover an eye-popping bulge before moving down the dizzying drop of his legs to his red, white and blue Converse, white tube socks pulled up to his shins.

On their own or individually, maybe the whole picture may be ridiculous: such a rail-thin skinny guy in an American flag Speedo dancing to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard? Was this guy even for real? Despite that, you find yourself unable to look away. You have to keep reminding yourself that it is an amateur pole-dance night because, despite the fact that the guy keeps cracking up and giggling at nothing in particular and not flowing naturally from one move to the next like someone more experienced at pole-dancing might, for someone of his almost gangly and awkward structure, he moves with a practiced, well-oiled fluidity, riding the fine line between shamelessly goofy and sexy. You can’t help it but your eyes are caught in the way his slender hips roll and rock and every flip and toss of his messy hair and gesture have your eyes glued further and further to the display, heat spreading from you face down your neck. 

You’re so caught up in watching Danny dance, you almost don’t feel an insistence poke on the side of your arm but finally, you turn, your eyes were blown wide and dilated like a cat that has been trying to chase a laser pointer, blurting out a dopey "Buh?" 

“Heh. y/n, do you maybe want to get closer?” one of your friends asks with a knowing snicker.

Your heart dips dangerously as sweat creeps across your palms at the thought. “Oh, I...is that allowed? I mean-”

“Psh, sure it’s allowed. Do you need some singles to stuff in that flag?”

“UH-??”

In no time flat, everybody else at the table starts taking out their wallets and pulling out dollar bills and handing them your way. All you can do is stare and sputter as the crumpled bills get put in your sweaty hands.

“I...you guys are fine with me-?”

“Go on, girl!” Your friend gives you a hearty nudge and you slide off your chair, almost slipping off completely and straightening out the dollar bills, folding them into a more manageable bundle. You give one last nervous reluctant look back to the table but they’re all grinning and giving you the thumbs up, cheering you on.

With your heart fit to beat right out of your chest and your face engulfed in a monstrous blush, you make your way stiffly to the edge of the stage. Danny is at the far end of the stage but as you approach, he glances your way and your whole body seizes up. Somehow, your trembling hands pull out one of the wrinkled dollar bills and hold it up for him to see.

From your closer vantage point, you can see laugh lines and stubble framing his strong jaw from under that mane of hair as he brings up one hand to brush it away from his eyes, smirking and pointing to his upper chest and mouths “For me?”, his teeth showing as he smiles wider.

You half-smile and nod. The ease evaporates almost entirely as Danny’s smile disappears briefly, his arm slipping off the pole and he eases onto the stage floor on his knees and then starts crawling on his hands and knees towards you and you’re hypnotized by the way his shoulders roll, looking completely like some wild sleek jungle cat painted in the sticky neon stage lights and clinging his smooth skin like a shifting, exotic pelt, his lips parted and his dark hooded eyes fixed on you.

Your breath comes up short as he stops at the edge of the stage, so close you can make out the finer dimensions of his face, hot apple ale scented breath hitting your face along with the smell of some sweet oil coming from his bouncy curls.

“H-here…?” You say meekly and hold out the dollar bill, which he regards with his eyelids lowered before reaching out and snapping the bill out of your hand with his gleaming teeth and you swear you can hear under the wailing guitar and pounding drums a low pleased growl from Danny as you blurt out “Oh fuck!”, heat washing over you in thick waves.

Danny’s slinky body arches and he sits back on his heels, taking the dollar bill from his mouth and stuffs it into his speedo, tilting his head to the side and smirking down at you. “Thanks, babe.”

A high, nervous giggle bursts out from your throat and you want to fan yourself because holy shit, you’re boiling to death. “Y-you’re welcome...heh….”

The polite thing would be to try to make eye contact but your eyes drift down to his long-fingered hands stroking up and down his slim thighs, so much that you don’t hear him at first and then he snaps his fingers in your face, making you jump back slightly and he laughs, splashy and sweet.

“Uhh...heh, I asked your name, sweetheart.”

You gulp and fidget. “Ah...um, y/n….”

He hums in acknowledgment, grabbing the pole with both hands from behind, exposing the long line of his chest: a tear-shaped opaque pendant on a black cord nestled in the downy patch of chest hair leading to a finer trail along his stomach and ringed around his navel and finally disappearing beneath the elastic waistband of his tight speedos. “You gotta somewhere to put all that money, y/n?”

“Huh? Oh!” You nervously laugh again as you remember the now damp handful of singles in your other hand. “Yeah, just…” You gesture. “In the f-front?”

He smiles and gives a nod, spreading his legs a little wider and dropping his lower body down for better access. You glance backward to your table and your friends are whooping and cheering you on like it’s the Showcase Showdown on "Price is Right". You scoff, still blushing fiercely but turn back to Danny and take out a single, your hand trying its best to cooperate with your brain as it reaches out and quickly pulls back the waistband and nestles the crinkled bill in the hollow of Danny’s hip, almost recoiling from the fleeting touch of his soft, warm skin. The initial shock easing, you stuff a few more bills under the waistband so the bills make a waving, green ring around his waist. With a grunt, Danny rises from his position and turns around. At first, you think maybe once your “transaction” being done, he’ll turn his attention elsewhere but he instead grips the pole and suddenly sticks his pert butt right into your face and you gulp hard as he wiggles it from side to side, snickering and looking over his shoulder at you, his hair falling over his forehead as he gives a cheek a pat with his palm.

“Heh, there’s more room in the back, big spender.”

You huff out a laugh that won’t come out, not enough air in your lungs, making you light-headed and dizzy. “Oh my god, this is so-”

He laughs again, bright and almost musical. “This your first time tipping a pole-dancer, y/n?” He doesn’t seem all that drunk from what you can see but the way he says your name comes out partially slurred as he sways from side to side along to the beat of the music.

You swallow, laughing shyly as your eyes track back and forth with distraction, following the movement of Danny’s lower body, marveling to yourself. “Uhm...y-yeah.”

He tips his head backward, making your eyes widen even more but he smiles as he tips backward, his legs stretching out as he squeezes his thighs around the pole. “Then you can just make it rain for me.”

Your brain, despite knowing full well what that means, hiccups for a second. “‘Make it...rain’?”

“Yeah, just kinda...throw them on me while I’m-”

“Oh, you’re…” you gulp and mentally admonish yourself. _When did you become such a fucking prude?_ “You’re fine with that?”

Danny snorts and swings himself back around to face you, dropping down to face level. “Pssh. I mean...I’m half-naked rocking the fuck out to Def Leppard AND I have a cute girl willing to throw money my way, plus…” he says in a joking stage whisper“-I’m a biiiiit tipsy and I get kinda...well…” To that, he rolls his eyes and the corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing, secretive smile.

You swallow. “Kinda what?”

Danny pops his lips and smirks, his eyes seeming to darken. “Slutty...when I’m drunk. I know my limits, though. Just a little bit helps me, y’know...loosen up.”

You chuckle nervously. As awkward as you are when it comes to flirting, you can’t pass up the opportunity when it comes up like right now. “Well you are pretty... _ loose _ .” and meaningfully cast your eyes up and down his body.

His smile widens and he licks his lips slowly. Your greedy eyes follow the tip of his tongue as they trace a leisurely path over the pale pink curve of his mouth in a wet circle. You suppress a shiver. “Ooooh,  _ dayum _ . Aren’t you a little sweet-talker? If you keep that up, I might have to give you a little  _ private _ dance.”

The idea of a private dance suddenly snaps you out of the strange bubble you’ve built around you and Danny, now aware of everybody else, including your friends, watching you, and for a moment, you shrink, realizing how stupid you must be acting. He’s not even a regular pole-dancer but an amateur. How could you get so carried away like this? 

“Uh…” Your eyes dart nervously and your hands crease and fold the bills with distraction, wanting to turn tail and retreat, maybe laugh to your friends about the weird experience but your legs are locked, holding you in place for the moment. “I...I should go…” you mutter, blinking rapidly and avoiding Danny’s gaze, starting to back away.

“Hmm? Hey, wait a sec." 

You flinch as you feel fingers curl around your wrist and look up to see Danny looking deep into your eyes, his eyes lit with a sizzling amber and green color.

“You don’t have to go, baby girl.” He smiles with a sweet, shy warmth that makes your heart dance. “The money’s not important. All you have to do...is watch me.” He lets go of your hand, holding your gaze as he rises up to his full height, drawing his palms up his thighs, drawing your eyes up the steep climb before one hand grips the pole and he walks around it.

From up close now, you can hear the bottoms of his Converse creak against the waxed floor of the stage, just barely audible over the music. His hand grips the pole tighter and he drops his body lower, spinning himself around with one leg bent and the other extended out in front of him.

Your clumsy reflexes kick in and start sifting through the sweaty handful of singles and don’t so much “make it rain” as clumsily heave them in Danny’s direction, some hitting the floor of the stage, one or two wrinkled bills landing in his hair. He lets out a genuinely surprised ‘Whoa jeez!’ as he spins closer and closer to the floor, his long legs bent trying to catch himself before folding and collapsing underneath him as he lands on the floor with a soft thump. He lands facing away from you but with some huffing grunts and the soles of his Converse squeaking against the stage floor, he kicks himself around to face you. It’s only then he lets his body drop completely onto the floor, his hand finally letting go of the pole as he sprawls out like a starfish. He turns his head in your direction and you can see his chest heaving with pants as his hair hangs frizzy and wild over most of his face but barely visible, you can just make out a breathless, almost proud smile stretching the bottom half of his face.

You watch all of this unfold not knowing at first what to think but you both end up bursting into nervous giggles. 

The song ends and there’s a lot of clapping all around you and he closes his eyes and hums as he brushes his hair back from his eyes before fluttering them at you. “Whew! What a workout.”

You let out a short laugh in agreement as he pulls himself up with some difficulty, grabbing the stray bills off the floor, stuffing the rest into his overflowing speedo. He straightens, ruffling his hair and grinning at the rest of the audience before he capers his way back cutely to the curtain, the dollar bills sticking out of the top waving like the green tail of a peacock.

Before he exits the stage completely, he looks back to you, blows a kiss in your direction, and with a wink, leaves through the part in the glittery curtain.


End file.
